


swifter than a weaver's shuttle

by MistressKat



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen, Other: See Story Notes, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-19
Updated: 2013-03-19
Packaged: 2017-12-05 20:45:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/727747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressKat/pseuds/MistressKat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Every day it takes a bit longer to make himself turn around and face his brother.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	swifter than a weaver's shuttle

**Author's Note:**

> This was written way back during Season 2, and was originally meant to be a part of a themed set. Posted now as, while I’ll never finish the whole thing, parts of it will work as standalones. Excellent beta-reading provided by [virtualinsomnia](http://virtualinsomnia.livejournal.com/). Title from _Job_ 7: 6-8.
> 
>  
> 
> **SEE END NOTES FOR WARNINGS (spoilery for the fic)**

“Hey, Dean?” Sam’s voice is thick with sleep and drugs that aren’t working. “Dean?” he repeats, louder this time, and Dean feels like ten kinds of shit for making him call twice. Every day it takes a bit longer to make himself turn around and face his brother.  
  
Dean presses his forehead to the cool smoothness of the window for a few more seconds before drawing in a slow measured breath through his nose. Then he pushes off and walks to Sam’s bedside, a bright teasing smile plastered on his face.  
  
“Mornin’ bro. It’s about time you dragged your lazy ass to the land of…” He falters briefly here but covers smoothly. “…wakefulness. Sleep well?”  
  
Without giving his brother the chance to answer, Dean presses on, not letting the easy-going expression slip or crumble. “Of course you did, probably exhausted after last night’s sponge bath, you lucky bastard.”  
  
He lifts the end of the bed up and hands Sam a glass of fruit juice, relieved to see an answering grin, even if it is a mere ghost of its former glory. He prattles on, filling in the gaps without making it obvious, adding a lot of thinly veiled innuendo about hot and cold running nurses.  
  
Finally Sam settles down. Dean tries to keep the conversation light and on safe topics. Like the time Sam got arrested for public indecency for getting caught with his pants down in the cemetery, because the crazy boko fancied the designer jeans and didn’t want his pet zombie to slobber all over them. Or the Christmas they spent in New Mexico, cranky and whining about the lack of snow until Dad let them rip up ten boxes of tissues and scatter them all over.  
  
But of course this brings them right back to Dad, and Sam asks for the journal again. Dean gives up easy now, just handing it over and listening Sam devise strategies and make plans for _after_. Dean nods and hums, inserting little digs and unrelated comments at the right places.  
  
Sam gets tired quickly, and Dean is horribly, shamefully _grateful_ , because it means he won’t notice Dean’s hands, fisted tightly around the coarse hospital sheets and shaking. He’s always been able to lie with his face but not his body.  
  
Dr. Byrne comes in; her lovely round features smooth like a pebble in the bottom of a river, showing nothing but professional concern.  
  
“Here, Dean. I made a list of things you should check out. There’s a couple of…” A quick glance toward the doctor, who is studiously perusing Sam’s chart. “…specialist shops you might enjoy. And, you know, some other things to…” Sam’s slurring his words now, searching for a way to tell Dean to check on a group of local kids playing with black magic without actually blurting it out in front of witnesses.  
  
“Sure, Sammy.” He takes the slip of paper from his brother’s clumsy grip, their fingers tangling briefly, clinging together like wisps of gossamer. “You rest for a while. I’ll take care of it.” He already has.  
  
It’s afternoon so Sam’s going to have dinner and sleep a little. Meanwhile, Dean needs to go shower and change. He makes his way outside through the corridors, the chemical smell of medicine and industrial strength disinfectant trailing after him like a predator.  
  
The Impala is waiting for him in the far corner of the parking lot. Dean opens the door and sits sideways behind the wheel, legs outside, pretending to enjoy the sun. He quickly scans Sam’s list before stuffing it into the glove box with all the others.  
  
They’re all eerily similar, like the distilled essence of his brother is poured onto these scraps of paper, full of addresses and sketches of arcane symbols and occasional ‘for the sake of all that is pure and holy Dean, bring me some proper food’, and always at the end of each one: ‘be careful, okay?’  
  
They’ve been here for a month. For Sam it’s more like a week. Loss of memory was to be expected, Dr. Byrne had explained, and the newer the memories the quicker they go.  
  
It had been one of the first signs that something was wrong, the progress so gradual that for months Dean barely noticed it. He’d always thought his kid brother was a few sandwiches short of a picnic and took Sam having two showers in one morning or checking the same website again and again as just another sign of his eccentricity and meticulousness bordering on obsession. But then Sam’s visions started repeating themselves, like a tape stuck in an infinite loop, even though they’d already dealt with whatever it was. Only Sam wouldn’t remember, grabbing Dean by the collar, frantic and wide-eyed, demanding to know why they weren’t burning rubber to go and save the hapless accountant, whose house they’d purged from malevolent spirits just two days ago.  
  
It wouldn’t have made any difference, everyone says so, but they don’t know and Dean can’t help thinking _if only_. If only he’d realised sooner, if only they hadn’t accepted Sam’s abilities quite so easily. If only it was something Dean could shoot or exorcise or burn to crisp instead of a brain tumour, something supernatural instead of mundane.  
  
Dean flips open his mobile and hits speed dial number two. “The person you are trying to reach is unavailable. Please leave a message…”  
  
Dean’s left a lot of those over the weeks.  
  
Day 2: “Sam’s sick, Dad. We’re in the Alexandria Hospital somewhere near Philadelphia, the address is…”  
  
Day 7: “Is something wrong? Are you in trouble? I’m not messing around; it’s serious. You have to get here.”  
  
Day 10: “…so sorry, Dad. I didn’t see it in time, didn’t realise… Please, Dad, I don’t know what to do. Sam’s asking for you.”  
  
Day 15: “I know you’re getting your messages. Why aren’t you here? Sammy needs you! _I_ need… Fuck. I never thought of you as a coward before, Dad.”  
  
Today is day 26, and when the voicemail picks up, Dean sucks in desperate, greedy gulps of air before he can speak. “The doctors say…” And here he has to close his eyes, shutting away sunlight and people and the whole goddamn world, too bright and filled with hard edges. “Two weeks, Dad. You got two weeks. Maybe less.”  
  
He hangs up, glancing at his watch. Sam will be asleep for another hour or so, and Dean plans to be back before he wakes up.  
  
That night, Sam asks when Dad is coming, and Dean says: “Tomorrow, Sammy. He promised he’d be here tomorrow.”  
  
He says other things too, things he thought he’d never have to say out loud. But now he needs to hear the words, needs for Sam to hear them. He has two weeks to memorise how Sam’s eyes soften at their sound, the way Sam’s skin feels under his trembling hand, too hot and dry, a tangible proof of time still left. Two weeks.  
  
Maybe less.

 

**Author's Note:**

>  **Warnings:** Serious illness, implied major character death


End file.
